One Beat
by Disastro Bella
Summary: Bella Swan: A less than ideal beauty, overnighted into stardom. Edward Cullen: Musician, lothario, and bored with everyone. But once he catches sight of Bella, he develops a plus-sized obsession. A tale of exploiting imperfections and carnal lust. AH, 18
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: This will be un-beta'd until further notice. I write for fun, and if any and all grammatical errors deter my readers, then I will look into getting assistance. Maybe. Also, the chapters will be fluctuating in length. I stop when it feels right, not when I see a 6000 word count.**_

_**Warnings: Will contain mature language and graphic sexual situations. Adult readers only.**_

_**Stephenie Meyers owns all characters. **_

_**Title, One Beat, borrowed from a Sleater-Kinney song of same name. **_

_**I do not own One Beat or Percussion Gun. **_

**Chapter 1: Discovering Swan**

**Bella **

I wasn't sure if I would make it. I got up two hours early so I could get ready comfortably; eat a healthy breakfast of grapefruit, toast and 2 cups of coffee-plus three cigarettes—and still leave me with an hour to drive the freeway to Burbank. My Tom-Tom said it was a thirty-five minute drive. I gave myself an _hour. _Math is not my fucking forte_,_ but Jesus H. Christ, this equation is mighty rudimentary.

_Dammit. _

I moved to Los Angeles by way of Las Vegas by way of Reno, Nevada. Born and raised in the Biggest Little City, I was offered a scholarship to UNLV, and even though my plan all along was to stay local and attend UNR, I decided last minute to make a change. My dad up in Washington tried hard to persuade me into U-Dub, but I respectfully declined. Living in the Pacific Northwest just wasn't appealing to me. Living near my estranged father wasn't too bright a prospect either. So Las Vegas it was. I got my B.A. in Journalism with a focus in public relations, and moved to L.A. the day after I collected my diploma.

And then I started job hunting.

Now, most people plan ahead when deciding to move to another state. Arrange their ducks in a neat little row, so to speak. Especially before relocating to a booming metropolis with a cost of living that makes anyone want to gouge their eyes out, much less a recent graduate-without honors-in this mother fucking economy. Not me. Nope, not fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants Bella Swan. She arranged zero ducks. She was absolutely row-less.

Yeah, I'm an idiot. Or one could say I'm spontaneous. A free spirit with a cup half-full mentality—one could say. But I don't hear anyone talking.

An idiot it is.

An idiot with poor time management skills, apparently.

_Fuck_. Eleven minutes left.

The interview was for an assistant at _Ground Zero Media. _They organize parties, grand openings for nightclubs, and all sorts of VIP type soirées. The bottom line is—I start at the bottom. I work my way up. And hopefully, maybe, _someday, _I'll have my very own bottom dweller to boss around. But in the meantime, I crossed my fingers and prayed to sweet baby jeebus that I would not only find the damn place on time, but also get the damn job.

I mean, living at the Cloud Nine Motel is great and all, but I'm afraid of the toilet there, and the desk guy, Raphael, is always making these horrific licking gestures at me. Like he envisions me as an envelope he just has to get sealed, or maybe one of those spicy Mexican lollipops…

Yeah, pretty fucking creepy, but I digress.

If I get the job, I can start looking for a shit-hole to call my own. And I really can't wait to have my very own L.A. shit-hole to decorate, and love, and hose down with bleach (pre-decorating of course.)

"_Turn left in 1.2 miles. Beck Avenue. Destination reached." _

_L.A. Woman _started on the stereo. I cranked it up and relaxed knowing I was on the right track.

Oh Tom-Tom, you're the _greatest_.

**oOoOo**

I found the building, parked my car, and exhaled long and hard in pure, unadulterated relief. With five minutes to spare, I reapplied my lip gloss in the rearview mirror, shoved my smokes and my phone in my purse and headed to the front entrance of _Ground Zero._

My pencil skirt and blouse combo was classic. Sexy and professional. I checked the buttons on the blouse to make sure they remained intact, and smoothed out the skirt as I tried my damndest to reconcile my nerves and channel the confident girl that lies just beneath the surface.

I am pretty. I know this about myself. I'm not vain, or ego-centric in any way, but I'm positive that I am an attractive woman. However-

I am curvy. Voluptuous. Pleasantly plump. What have you. The gist is; I'm not what society would deem ideal. But I am healthy. My skin is smooth, my complexion is fresh. My dark hair lay shiny and long. My lips full and well matched to the rest of my figure. Full, plump, _healthy. _Always been this way, never skinny, never fat- just in-between. I could care less. I like food. I love beer. And to counteract it, I run a mile a day. I'll lose a few pounds, gain a few back, but in the end, I can't let my weight define me. Marilyn Monroe was a size ten or twelve. And so am I. I'm healthy and young and feminine and all that was just fine and dandy until I moved to L.A. and saw just how mother-_fucking gorgeous _every single woman is here. I swear, there must be normal human beings in this city, I just wonder if they all come out at night. Or maybe they hide in poorly lit corridors… or something.

Never have I ever been more self conscious than when I stepped into this city. Luckily, I've been broke-thus living on coffee and nicotine—and well, grapefruits. So maybe, there is a plus to being so free-spirited and spontaneous. Read: Idiotic. I'm dieting due to economic conditions. Good thing too, because so far I haven't found a safe place to take my runs.

The face at the personnel desk is stunning… and vapid. I can almost see the breeze from the fancy ceiling fan above blowing in one ear, and out the other. She eyes me behind red Chanel reading glasses, strategically placed upon her five thousand dollar nose. Meant to make her appear studious, I suppose. To me, she looks like Career Day Barbie.

"Can I help you, Miss?" The Mattel throwback asked condescendingly. Ew.

I plastered on my most winning smile.

"Hello, my name is Bella Swan, I'm interviewing for the executive assistant position." She peers over the lenses of her hideous attempt at looking intelligent, and scoffed under her breath. I could have sworn she said, "_cow_". Hmm.

"Mr. Black will be with you in a moment, please help yourself to coffee or water, and there are some pastries as well. I'm sure you'll _love_ the doughnuts." With that remark she picked up a phone, whispered into the receiver and went back to looking at her cuticles. And no, I didn't miss her implication with the pastry comment.

I did, however, choose to ignore it. I'd hate to drop to her level. That kind of fall may hurt.

As I was waiting with my cone shaped cup of water, the door opened, and in charged a petite whirlwind in a Prada peacoat and Jimmi Choos. Her hair was short and wispy. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, and was dressed even better.

"Lauren, can you please explain to me _why the hell _Jacob Black hasn't returned my call? Is he _asking_ to lose our account? Because that's exactly what's going to happen if we don't get to confirm the final list of invites. I have a goddamned fashion show to get finalized, like _yesterday_, and he can't take two precious minutes to CALL ME BACK!" All of this seemed to have been said in one breath. Because the woman panted out of a furious mouth. Scary little thing. I was kind of awestruck, and a bit stoked that she put the fear of God into Career Day Bar- I mean _Lauren. _

"Oh, um… Miss Brandon, yes, well uh…"

"For the love of God, Lauren, Spit. It. Out!" Snarled Miss Brandon, with a hint of amusement behind her fury. I was pretty amused myself.

"Yes, of course Miss Brandon, I'll call him immediately." Lauren seemed to have begun sweating, and her hands were shaking. "He has an interview any minute with Miss Swan, here, so I'm sure he'll take a moment to speak with you beforehand." Once again she picked up the phone. "Yes, Mr. Black, Miss Bella Swan is here about the Exec Assistant position and, uh, Miss Brandon is hoping for a few moments of your time as well, sir." She nodded like he could see her and hung up the phone. "He'll be right with you both, ladies." Lauren sniffled, and resumed her nail bed observations. It was then I decided to peek at Miss Brandon. She looked none too pleased with Lauren, but must have finally noticed there was another human being in the lobby, because suddenly, and with the grace of a seasoned ballerina, she spun around to face me. What sounded like a whoosh of air came from her perfectly painted lips, and her ochre eyes scanned me from top to bottom, then back to my face. I felt uneasy under her apparent scrutiny. Was she _checking me out_?

"_You," _She began, her voice now calm and sedate in comparison to her recent growling session with Lauren.

"You. Are. _Exquisite_." Her voice was little too breathy for my comfort level.

"Um, excuse me?" I asked, and looked around like an idiot, knowing damn well we were the only people in the lobby. "What?" I repeated as she continued to eye molest me. _What the hell? Are all Lesbians this blatant? I mean I'm flattered and all but…_

"You are gorgeous. Stunning. My god, I feel like I've been looking for you my whole life," she just stared. I'm sure I was catching flies with how wide my mouth hung open.

_Moi?_

She shook her head and held out her hand. "Alice Brandon. Eclipse Modeling Company." She handed me a card that confirmed her claims.

"Bella Swan. And I'm pretty sure I'm straight, so while I'm beyond flattered, I mean you're beautiful, and there was this time in college-" I rambled like an idiot.

"Oh no, Miss Swan," she laughed, and I swear, all the woodland animals would come about just from hearing that laugh. _Just like Snow White_, I silently mused. "I'm not hitting on you. I'm a modeling scout, as well as head fashion coordinator, but that's besides the point. You've blown me away with your look, and that hasn't happened in years, and what I really want is to talk to you about a contract." She looked slightly manic now, as if her entire world hinged on my response.

"A contract? I'm sorry I'm not sure I follow." I looked down, confused and suddenly a bit shy.

"Yes. A modeling contract. A fucking big one. I want to make you a supermodel Miss Swan."

Jesus ,Mary and Joseph, maybe I should roll a joint and take her behind the building to help her out with her cataracts. I mean, a model? She must be fucking joking. Hardy harr. _Hilarious_.

Just as I opened my mouth to offer her some medication, either for the vision impairment, or mental instability, a booming voice called from behind me.

Jacob Black.

"Alice, Isabella, thank you for your patience. Isabella, I hope you won't be too put off if I ask that you give me just a few moments to speak to Miss Brandon? It won't be long I assure you." His voice was deep and lilting. It resonated in my bones, and I swore I fucking swooned a little. Jacob Black was a study in masculinity. Angular, towering, dark, devastating. I smiled and nodded in assurance. I was stunned silent anyway…

Alice looked torn. She didn't know whether to stay or go. I could almost hear Cheap Trick droning in the background. _Should I stay or should I go nowww_…

"Please use that, Isabella." She pleaded lowly, pointing to the card still clutched in my hand. "We have much yet to discuss."

And with that she followed behind Mr. Black. But not before shooting one last begging look over her shoulder. And not before Mr. Jacob Black had time to mask the very obvious appraisal he was giving my body.

The pencil skirt and blouse combo. Classic.

L.A. Women, look the fuck out. Bella Swan's in town, and garnering _all sorts _of attention.

Lauren looked like she wanted to claw out my hair and give me cat scratch fever simultaneously.

_Meow._

I looked down at the card and felt my brow furrow. Alice Brandon. Contract. _Modeling? That couldn't be right._ Maybe she meant like a hair model or something. My hair is pretty awesome.

I decided to call after my interview. Hopefully I would be so excited about my new job, that I could put up with whatever loony shit she was spouting about. _Supermodel, my ass_. I snorted internally. Super-_sized _model maybe. _Stop that Bella_. I scolded internally_. Self deprecation was _so_ last season. _This time, I think I snorted out loud.

I sat down, took a sip of my cone-cup water, and crossed my legs and my fingers. Hopefully the pre-interview confidence boost will help me land this fucking gig.

L.A. Woman _indeed._

**A.N. Well, let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!**

**Oxox, Susie**


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: We're going to be skipping ahead a bit in this chapter. Thanks for reading!**_

_**Chapter title taken from a White Rabbits song. Great band, great song. And I think it suits this Edward.**_

_**Stephenie Meyer owns characters from Twilight.**_

**Chapter 2: Percussion Gun**

**Edward**

Touring is exhausting. I mean, it's a great time, a once in a lifetime experience, a sure sign of success. But I'm fucking tired. All the time.

I don't allow it to hinder my performance in the slightest, though. I push through the haze of boredom and redundancy and put on a hell of a show, if I do say so myself. And even though I try and try to make each night that I'm performing something new and exhilarating for the fan, I can't get over the fact that even though I'm living my dream - something always seems missing, misplaced, misappropriated. Just… off. Same sights. Same smells. Same orgasms. But, at least I get to do what I love. And I fucking love music.

I started playing the drums when I was ten. Well, my mom says I was banging on pots and pans when I was a toddler, but my first experience with an actual kit was at age ten. Twenty fucking years ago. Since then, I've learned the piano and guitar as well. I'm a decent guitar player, but percussion is in my soul. My best friend since the pot banging days has been Jasper Whitlock. He's the guitar badass. He plucks a twelve-string like he invented the craft. He also happens to be the reason that we are a well known band. His girl in high school, Maria Santos, had a record producer daddy. Aro Santos. Started as a scout for Epic Records and began stock-piling talent for his own company that he planned on starting. With the stolen clientele, and a knack for hearing the next big thing, he became quite the "music business emperor" here in L.A.

And Jasper ate dinner at the Santos house every other Friday.

Maria insisted that her daddy hear us play, he did, he loved it, and signed us. We were required to add a third band member, however, and that's when we were introduced to Jimmy Bang.

Jimmy was Aro's nephew. He, too, was a drummer. It was explained that I would play keyboard and sing. Jazz would play guitar and do back up vocals, and Jimmy fucking Bang would be our drummer. I agreed and signed the fucking contract, even though I was internally fuming. I didn't want to give up the opportunity by being selfish. Aro explained that I am the front man. And the front man can't be hidden behind a drum kit.

Whatever. Jimmy is actually a great percussionist. And he became a great friend. We've been doing this for twelve years together. You've got to respect your band mates to stick it out for over a decade. Girls have come and gone, including Maria (she came out of the closet a year after we got signed, much to Jasper's chagrin), but the guys and I have only become closer over the years.

I trust and respect Jasper and Jimmy implicitly.

Which is why I don't even flinch when Jimmy jumps out from my peripheral straight in front of my face. And in my bunk.

"_Fuck_, Edward, you're not passing out already, are you? I've got triplets lined up for tonight. _Triplets, _man! And they're fucking down for the kinky shit, too. Like I bet they'd kiss each other and shit. Fucking _hot_." He was two inches from my face, and I could smell pussy and Jameson's on his breath. Fish and whiskey. Fucking _nasty_.

"I'm cool, Jim, I need to fucking get some sleep. I'd appreciate it if you could keep the incestuous orgy out of the bus tonight." I ran my hands over my face and looked up to see Jimmy pouting like a fucking baby.

"But, triplets, Edward! This is on your fuck bucket list, I've seen it! Right under screwing a preachers daughter and two spots above getting a blow job on a roller coaster. You can't bow out, anyway, dude. There're three of them, and three of us. It just makes the most sense mathematically. You can't mess with numbers, Edward."

I feel my eyes roll. I love and respect Jimmy Bang. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. The guy is seriously vapid, however. Sex, drums, and Irish Whiskey. That's all he knows. I sit up, defeated, and grab for a smoke and a lighter from my nightstand.

"Come on, man," I sigh and take a pull of the Camel. "I just want to pass out."

"Don't give me that shit, Edward. You know you'll just end up jacking off to that fucking fashion magazine, anyway. Might as well get the real deal, instead of some photo-shopped, airbrushed, glossy Cosmo model.'

'It's Vogue you dumb-ass," I realized too late how gay that made me sound, "Whatever, you make it sound like it's any different from your full sized poster of Megan Fox in a bikini. At least, I have taste."

"Yeah, if you call being a chubby chaser _tasteful_," he muttered, but I fucking heard him.

"A what? A _chubby chaser_? _Really_? She's a fucking _supermodel_, first of all. Vogue covers just don't get handed out, you moron. Plus she's fucking gorgeous. You seriously saying that if Bella Swan crawled on your lap and started bouncing you wouldn't get turned on? Jesus, she's fucking _perfect_. Hips you can grab onto, and that ass…" Dammit, now I'm hard.

"Oh, wow. Way to defend your supermodel, Romeo. Don't let me interrupt your pining you fuckin' shmuck. And yes, I'd fuck your precious Bella Swan. She's hot, I admit it, but she's a plus sized model, Ed. We have access to bitches you can throw around, you know, fuck against a wall. It's just not my cup of tea, bro. But if you got a chubby girl fetish, I can scout out backstage. We can always work her in with the triplets." With that he became thoughtful, "Is it the big titties you like on the fat chicks? Cause if you just have a thing for huge boobies, all the sisters have the same surgeon, if you know what I mean…"

"Shut up dude, _fuck_" I put out my smoke and laid back down. "I have a beauty fetish, asshole. That's all. I just think she's beautiful. I want to fuck her every way possible and make her cum in my mouth and smack her full ass, but she's not real. She's a picture in a magazine. And yet, I still prefer her company to yours, and especially three surgically enhanced beer commercial spokeswomen. This conversation is over." I rolled over and feigned sleep.

"Fine, be that way, pussy. Have fun with your hand you fucking girl. '_She's beautiful. I looove her. And her personality is beautiful too.'_ Jesus, Edward!" Him mocking me pissed me off, but I still kept quiet. He continued, however. "You know, you are a fucking rock star, Edward. And she's a model. You act like she's above your station or something. We fuck models all the time. It'd be cake to get a meeting with her. Shit, she'll probably be at Aro's soiree next month. Fucking ask him to invite her, or something. Fuck her. Get her out of your system, 'cause seriously dude? It seems like your obsessed with the chick."

I heard his footsteps fade, and the door to the bus slam shut, and I prayed for some fucking solitude. With a heavy sigh, I reached beneath my bunk and grabbed for the glossy paper.

Bella Swan was an overnight success, it seems. One day, Calvin Klein models were practically street people with heroin needles their fashion accessory. The next day, Bella Swan hit the scene, and it was no longer considered beautiful to be grossly underweight. She was considered a "plus-size" model at the beginning, but the term was dropped after she took over contract after contract and became the "enbodiment of American Beauty". Chanel, Burberry London, Versace - they all started making clothes to fit this spectacular beauty, and every size twelve teenager across the world began idolizing the model. Bella Swan stated in interview after interview, that she wouldn't be defined by her size. She's done magazine spreads at a size eight, and then a few months later, a runway show as a size fourteen. She says she won't play the games that the business requires. If the magazine, or the designer doesn't want her as she is then they can find a new model. She doesn't take shit, and she doesn't change for anyone.

I'll admit to being a tad fanatical about Bella Swan. The first time I saw her was on a billboard while I was driving to Aro's office for a tour meeting. She was sitting on a gold sofa leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, appearing sullen, and sexy as hell. Her brown suede boots went to her knees, while a cream silk negligee barely covered the rest of her. Hair messy and shiny and long, falling in purposely tangled waves framing a porcelain face with dark eyes and ruby stained lips. I almost ran off the road. Her collarbone set gracefully in the most luscious décolletage I have ever seen. The swells of her breasts spilling- somehow classily-from the lace and silk. I went hard immediately. I get hard every time I see her. She was on The Late Night show a few months back. I Tivo'd that shit, because even Jay couldn't stop staring like a pubescent boy. She wore a black and silver mini-dress, with knee high boots. Her thighs, muscular and soft at the same time, played peek-a-boo between the short hem of the dress and the top of the boots. Her hair was up in a lazy twist but as always, looked beautiful. But her voice is what I cherish the most about her TV appearances. Because the beauty of _her_ isn't already astounding enough, she's also articulate, well read, and witty as hell. I laughed so hard during her interview, that I pulled a fucking muscle in my stomach. And I work out.

Yeah, so, I'm crushing on a supermodel. But as dumb as a bag of bricks that he is, Jimmy did have a point. Since when did I have a problem getting any chick I wanted.? I'm the front man of Murder of Crows for fucks sake. We're the James fucking Dean of the Indy Rock genre since the late nineties. I've fucked famous actresses, dated models, and even had a brief affair with Angelina before the whole Brad business. I want Bella Swan. I've never actively pursued anyone, but fuck if I'm gonna let a bit of star-stricken nervousness let me stop before I've had her. At least once. But preferably several times… a night.

I folded the page and put it away with a groan. I grabbed my needy cock with all sorts of sordid visions of my buxom beauty driving my need for release.

Yeah, Jimmy's an idiot, but it looks like he was right about a few things. Tonight, at least.

Tomorrow, I'll start seeing to it that Bella Swan becomes a real girl, and not just a fantasy any longer.

_**AN: Okay guys, let me have it. It's been two years, and our Edward has a bit of a star crush on the lovely Bella. They meet next chapter. I hope to post next Thursday. Thanks for all the reviews!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: Thank you to everyone who's reading! Thanks especially for the reviews, they make the writing easier. **__**J**_

_**Stephenie Meyer is the owner and creator of all things Twilight. I'm having fun playing, though!**_

_**I also don't own Wicked Games, The lovely Chris Isaac does, however. Awesome video, btw. Very hot ;)**_

**Chapter 3: Wicked Games**

**Edward**

When we got back in Los Angeles, after a simple West Coast bus tour, I was ready to meet the object of my affection. Jimmy continuously tried to coerce me into at least getting a blow job from one of the groupie whores, but to be honest, that didn't appeal to me anymore. I'm a man and I have needs - but I was way to hyped up to get on with my plans to even think about getting it up for a stranger.

As far as what my plan actually entails? Well, I'm still actually without an outline_, per se, _but it definitely involves finding out where Bella is, and then somehow being there, too. I'm not going to _stalk her_, if that's what your thinking - just some preemptive and proactive information hunting should suffice.

We'd been back for a week already, but knowing Aro, our time off couldn't last much longer. That thought was interrupted by a text message alert. From Aro. I shut my laptop of the image of Bella Swan's newest ad campaign for Ketel One Vodka - I already admitted to obsessing, so keep your thoughts to yourself - and grabbed my phone off of my bed.

_**Meet at my office in an hour. Got numbers from west tour, and Sam wants to talk about direction for the Scream in Silence video. Pls inform J and J as well. - Aro **_

I was actually amped to work with Sam. Or Samuel Bayer, as he's known in the music video directing world. He was the man back in the days when MTV actually showed music, instead of disgusting, scripted, reality programming like Laguna Beach, and more disappointingly, Jersey Shore. He's worked with Nirvana for christs sake. Fucking amazing.

I responded quickly in the affirmative, grabbed my leather, and keys, and headed to the parking garage where my babies were kept. I decided to take my bike, a fully restored 1970 Triumph Roadster, and headed to Aro's office in West Hollywood. Hoping the whole way that my helmet would keep me inconspicuous. The last thing I fucking needed was a pap swarm. Their like flies on shit, those paparazzi. I appreciate my fans, and understand the importance of being a "public figure" and that essentially, that means I free to the publics scrutiny, but just once, I'd like to go to a regular pub, get a beer and play some fucking pool, without being rushed by screams and camera flashes. I've been deemed as "untouchable" thus far, by the media. Both in relation to women, and interviewers, and I'd like it to stay that way.

Not like I haven't been with women. I mean, that's a fucking joke. I just never do dates… or relationships. I've never been publicly linked to anyone. That fact helps tremendously with the journalists, however, as without any sex drama, they have very little reason to want to talk to me. It doesn't keep them from trying for a million dollar photo, though. The pap to get a shot actually placing me with a woman, will probably be made famous, or win a privacy invasion award of some kind. It's probably a big silver trophy with a cockroach holding a camera - or something like that.

The receptionist, Giana Curerri, waves me back with a smile and a flirtatious lick of her lips. She's an Italian goddess, with long legs, and a gorgeous natural rack, but she's also Aro's daughter in law. When I say daughter-in-law, I use that term loosely, because actually she's Maria's partner. Together, they look like a walking porno. An Italian and Spanish masterpiece of feminine power. Giana and Maria are enough to give any octogenarian suffering from age induced erectile dysfunction a full-fledged boner. And they are very_… affectionate. _Jasper has tried several times to get a little threesome action with the girls. To no avail, unfortunately. Giana flirts with me, because she likes to fuck with me, but I happen to know that those girls are very serious. And very monogamous.

"Hey G, I'm heading on back," I wave and wink.

"Go ahead, bellissimo, Jimmie and Jasper are already here."

I walked into Aro's pretentious office, to see Jimmy sitting next to Jazz on the plush red leather couch, looking toward the door as if waiting for my presence to begin. Jazz was ringing his hands together in what looked to be excitement. Jimmie had a knowing smirk plastered on his hideous grill, directed at me.

_What the hell?_

I took a seat next to Jasper, and looked around in confusion. "Okay, I'm here, what's up? Where's Sam?"

Aro glanced up from his computer. "Sam will be here in a few moments, I wanted to discuss the numbers from the west coast tour." And then he droned about venue cost and profit division. Since it was a small bus tour, we made out well, but not nearly what we make on an overseas haul. Just as Aro was finishing up, and handing us our checks, there was a knock on the door.

"Come on in, Sam." Aro stood, and we all followed his direction. In walked Samuel fucking Bayer, in all his genius. We all shook hands, and I actually worried he would detect my nerves. My hands were clammy.

Hey, just because I'm a signed recording artist, and one of the most profound of the last decade, doesn't mean for one second that I don't get star-struck.

He got right to the point after introductions were made.

"Alright guys, I wanted to talk to you about where I see this video going. I want to bring it back to basics. No big cinematography tricks, or CGI. I'm thinking a re-make of an old Chris Isaac classic. Not a remake, actually, more like an 'inspired by' type of thing." he looked to each of us for our reaction. Jimmie just kept that smug ass grin on his stupid face. When none of us spoke, he continued.

"Come on guys, _Wicked Games_? Hot brunette in her underwear, covered in sand?" I looked at him like he was speaking German.

"With all due respect, Mr. Bayer -" I began, with trepidation. "You seriously think that we should base the video for "Scream in Silence" on a half naked chick rolling around in the sand? Doesn't that seem a bit… I don't know… _cheap_?"

I wanted to take back the word as soon as it was spoken. I couldn't even look at his face as I waited for a reply to my extremely tactless statement.

"I appreciate your input, and I only want you guys to be satisfied with the end result." he replied with a small smile. Wow, what a cool guy.

"But, I also have a very tasteful vision here. _Scream in Silence _is essentially a ballad. It's raw, and sensual, and I think we need to put a face to the image we conjure when we hear your voice rasp the chorus. Just like in _Wicked Games_, the sensuality of the song matched wholeheartedly with that of the video. I also think we should use someone recognizable. A household name. I have it on very good authority, that Bella Swan is interested in participating. Her agent has already gotten back to me," he continued speaking but I was too busy hyperventilating to listen. Jimmie leaned over with an amused twinkle in his eye, and slapped me hard on my back.

"So, what do you think, Edward? You look a bit frantic. Would you rather I find a different model? If you're not comfortable working with Miss Swan, then-"

"No! No, um… I mean, shit!" Sam just raised an eyebrow at my outburst. Cool fucking guy. Jimmy, however, let out a snort and a chuckle. Dirty bastard. I took a breath and squared my shoulders, glancing again at the confused, and in Jimmy's case, amused faces of my band mates. Then I looked directly in the eyes of Samuel Bayer and started, "What I meant to say, Mr. Bayer, is that we look forward to this vision coming to fruition. It's truly an honor to work with you, and would also be an honor to work with the lovely Miss Swan. Just let us know when and where we're needed." I looked once more, this time with confidence and anticipation coloring my stance., to Jasper and Jim for confirmation of my assurances. They both nodded, and stood to shake Sam's hand.

Jumping on my bike to head back to my condo, I looked to the sky and smiled blindingly. I could feel the breeze on my wisdom teeth, I smiled so wide.

Fate just handed me a fucking Royal Flush,

Edward Cullen is going _all motherfucking in._

Wicked games _indeed. _

Let them begin.

**End Notes: Okay, I know I said they would meet in this chapter, but it just didn't fit. Next chapter for sure, though! And, I'm willing to knock it out by tomorrow evening since this one was short and filler-esque. Please leave a review guys? I cherish even the shortest acknowledgement, good or bad… **

**See ya'll tomorrow!**

**x Susie**


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